Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  “It’s probably for the best,” he said. “Did she ever regain consciousness?”

  “I think so,” I said. “For a moment.”

  “Did you get her to sign the papers?”

  The papers!

  I had totally forgotten about the will and guardianship documents. They were in my pocket, and I had forgotten.

  Idiot!

  “Of course, she signed the papers,” I told him. “It’s just a scribble but it’s signed.”

  “Was someone there as a witness?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  “Eddie, I can’t do that,” Sanford protested. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Lawyers lie all the time.”

  “I won’t,” he said.

  “Sanford, you know the will is a good thing. I’m going to bring you these signed documents,” I said, “And then I have to go away for a while. You do what you have to do.”

  I scrawled an illegible signature on the two documents by Sylvia’s typed name and went to meet Sanford at TooJay’s Deli on Champion Boulevard by the Polo Club. I handed him the documents. He glanced at them quickly.

  “This could be anyone’s signature,” he said.

  “Which means it could be Sylvia’s,” I told him. “I say it’s her signature. You can believe me, and carry out her instructions, or you can refuse and let her estate go into probate.”

  “You ask a lot from people,” he told me.

  “I never ask anyone to do anything I wouldn’t do,” I said.

  “Yeah, but you’re the Boca Knight.”

  “We’re all Boca Knights if we want to be,” I told him. “It’s up to you.”

  I walked away, leaving the man alone with his conscience.

  Frustrating points and counterpoints ricocheted off the stone walls of my mind.

  I’m sure. I’m not sure. This is good. This is bad. I’m right. I’m wrong. This will help. This will hurt. What was I thinking? Was I thinking?

  I was standing near the security area at Miami International Airport watching Randolph Buford approach. He was being escorted by two humongous uniformed policemen who looked capable of guarding the entire Aryan Army. They flanked little Buford like boulder-sized bookends and the Nazi looked frightened. He saw me and grimaced.

  “Eddie Perlmutter,” the block of granite to Buford’s right said formally as the three of them stopped in front of me.

  I checked out his name tag. Officer Jeffrey Stone.

  “We are delivering prisoner Randolph Buford into your custody,” he said formally.

  “I’m a lucky guy,” I said with a nod. “Why is he handcuffed and shackled?”

  “The State considers him a flight risk and a dangerous man,” the giant to Buford’s left said. His name tag identified him as Officer Kevin Troy.

  “Is he officially in my custody?” I asked.

  “In a second,” Troy said, extending a piece of paper to me, which I read and signed.

  When I handed the paper back to Troy, Stone said, “He’s all yours.”

  “Good. Please take off the restraints,” I said politely.

  “Are you sure?” Stone asked.

  “He’s got a bull’s-eye on his back. Where’s he gonna run?”

  “I really don’t care. He’s your problem now,” Stone said after removing Buford’s shackles.

  The little Nazi rubbed his wrists and shook his legs for circulation.

  “Good luck,” they both said and departed immediately.

  “Do you expect a thank you for having the cuffs removed?” Buford grumbled.

  “I expect you to be a complete asshole and you haven’t disappointed me,” I said.

  We cleared security quickly because of my ID papers but after we completed the standard scan we were escorted to a private room. Buford was taken to what must have been a maximum-security room where he was subjected to a strip search. He came out rattled.

  “Sons of bitches,” he muttered, flustered.

  “You wouldn’t have lasted long in jail,” I told him.

  We were ushered into a large waiting area bustling with people. There were uniformed guards armed with machine guns standing on opposite walls carefully sweeping the room with their eyes.

  “Are those guards here because of me? Buford asked.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I said.

  We stood apart from the crowd and didn’t talk. I glanced at our tickets. We were on a 747-400 and our seats were in the upper deck. We were in the last row, far away from everything vital on board except the toilets.

  A voice over the loudspeaker announced preboarding for those needing special assistance and ended with, “Mr. Edward Perlmutter and traveling companion, please board now.”

  We negotiated the narrow stairs to the upper deck and found our seats in the last row. It was the end of the line. I told Buford to take the window seat so he would have to step over me to go anywhere. We sat in silence while over four hundred passengers boarded the plane. Randolph Buford watched the other passengers warily: men in black hats, black beards, black suits, women in wigs.

  “This is a freak show,” he muttered.

  “And you’re the star,” I said, removing some papers from my carry-on bag.

  I unfolded an e-mail from Howard Larkey that I had received that morning. He was in the second week of his excellent adventure and was scheduled to arrive in Ekaterinburg shortly. I had printed his message without reading it and stuffed it in my bag before leaving for the airport.

  “You got anything for me to read?” Buford asked.

  “Sorry. I left my copy of Mein Kampf in the oven,” I said.

  “Very funny,” Buford responded sullenly and looked out the window.

  I began reading Howard’s e-mail.

  Dearest Eddie,

  The trip is fabulous. We saw Prince at the LA airport. What a sexy thing he is. Next stop was Hawaii with lava fields and eleven climate zones. What to wear? Hong Kong was very gay, which was interesting, but I found Vietnam depressing. China? Whatʼs with that wall? Weʼre in Moscow. Fabulous architecture, Leninʼs Tomb, the Kremlin. Every sign looks like an eye chart.

  Ekaterinburg is our next stop.

  We are very excited about bringing our friends home.

  Good luck with your secret mission, wherever youʼre going.

  Hugs,

  Howard and Derek

  Wherever youʼre going . . .

  I looked at Randolph sitting next to me and thought of my last phone conversation with his mother. Contrary to my advice she had contacted her husband and told him about Randolph’s deal.

  “I wanted to hear his reaction,” she explained to me.

  “What did he say?”

  “Forrest told me to tell Randolph that he was no longer his son and he didn’t want anything to do with him anymore,” she said sadly. “He said Aryan Army would probably kill him if he ever comes back.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked him to talk to them for our son’s sake but he refused,” she told me. “He told me he was on probation with the Aryan Army himself and they wouldn’t listen to anything he had to say. He blames Randolph for everything bad that’s happened to him.”

  “That’s what your husband does,” I reminded her. “Do you want me to tell Randolph?”

  “Yes, he has to know,” Mrs. Buford said.

  I turned to the little Nazi sitting next to me and decided now was as good a time as any to relate his father’s words. “I have a message for you from your father,” I told him.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “My father would never talk to you.”

  “Your mother called him,” I clarified the situation. “She told him where you were going and he gave her a message for you. She asked me to relay it.”

  The kid turned a strange shade of gray when I repeated his father’s words.

  Sometimes tigers eat their young, I remembered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen
,” a female voice with an accent announced over the loudspeaker, “at this time please turn off all electronic devices, make sure your seatbacks and tray tables are in an upright position and fasten your seat belts.”

  I felt the plane move backward as we taxied away from the departure gate. I got a cold chill and folded my arms across my chest. What was I nervous about?

  I saw Buford look anxiously out the window.

  Scared? I guessed.

  Suddenly we were jetting down the runway. Buford closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was afraid. I was afraid. Our reasons were different.

  The plane lifted smoothly and gradually began gaining altitude. The cabin was quiet except for the roaring of the engines. The 747 slowly banked toward the east.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the pleasant voice of the flight attendant came through the intercom after we had leveled off. “You may now use electronic devices and you are free to move about the cabin.”

  She told us about the movies available during the flight and the dining service offered on board. She said the trip would be smooth with no expected turbulence in the forecast.

  The young man sitting across the aisle chuckled softly and turned to me.

  “The turbulence starts after we land,” he said with a smile.

  “So, sit back, relax and enjoy the flight,” the comforting intercom voice told us. “Estimated flight time is thirteen hours and twenty minutes. At 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning, Thursday, May fifth, you will be in Israel.”

  I glanced at Buford who had fallen asleep minutes after takeoff.

  What do Nazis dream? I wondered. Is he dreaming of bombing Poland, invading Stalingrad, goose stepping around the Eiffel Tower or firing up the ovens? Or is he just having a wet dream like any other nineteen-year-old jerk-off?

  I jabbed him with my elbow.

  He sat up, dazed. “What?” he sputtered.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Go to sleep.”

  “I was asleep,” he grumbled. “Something hit me.”

  “You’re dreaming,” I said.

  I closed my eyes, satisfied.

  “I gotta go to the can,” he said moments later.

  I unsnapped my seat belt and stood up. Buford slid past me. The young man in the seat across the aisle from us looked up at Buford and made eye contact.

  “What are you looking at?” Buford growled.

  “You tell me,” the young man said politely.

  “Shithead,” Buford muttered as he walked toward the lavatories.

  “It’s right in front of you,” the young man said.

  I laughed. He smiled. Buford slammed the lavatory door.

  “Danny Baker,” the young man introduced himself, and held out his hand.

  “Hi, Danny,” I said, shaking his hand. “Eddie Perlmutter.”

  “I know who you are,” he said. “Everyone in this section does. We know who your friend is, too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The airline thought we had a right to know who we’re traveling with,” he told me.

  “And you still took the flight?”

  “The odds are four hundred to one in our favor,” Danny Baker smiled.

  He was a good-looking young man in his early twenties. He had a hint of a beard that offset thinning hair at the top of his head. His body looked hard, but his eyes looked mellow. I wondered if he was someone special.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Worcester, Massachusetts,” he told me.

  “I’m from Boston,” I said.

  “I know,” Danny said. “I’m a big fan of yours. That rally last year in Palm Beach made me a Boca Knight, too.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. “Why are you flying from Miami if you’re from Worcester?”

  “I was visiting my grandparents before this trip,” he said.

  Buford returned, and I stood up to let him take his seat again.

  Danny Baker leaned forward and looked at Buford across the aisle.

  “Can I ask you something?” he spoke softly to the Nazi.

  “What?”

  “Why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t even know who the hell you are,” Buford grumbled.

  “Yes, but I know who you are,” Baker said. “You’re a neo-Nazi and you hate Jews. I’m a Jew. Why do you hate me?”

  “None of your fuckin’ business.” Buford turned toward the window, folding his arms across his chest.

  “He’s not very articulate,” I explained.

  “Most neo-Nazis aren’t,” Danny said. “They’re good at repeating . . . like anti-Semitic parrots. You know: ‘You Jews are all alike,’ or ‘There was no Holocaust,’ or ‘Hitler didn’t kill enough of you Jews.’”

  Buford glared at Baker. “You’re pretty brave in a plane full of Jews. I’d kick your ass in the street.”

  “I don’t think so,” Baker smiled.

  “Why? Are you such a tough guy?” Buford challenged.

  “I’m a trained combat soldier,” Baker said. “Are you?”

  “No, he’s not,” I interjected. “My girlfriend kicked his ass at the Boca Mall.”

  “Fuck both of you,” Buford turned away again.

  “He has a way with words, doesn’t he?” I said with a sad smile. “So, were you in the Marines?”

  “No, I was in the Israeli Defense Force,” he told me.

  “I thought you were American.”

  “I am. But I was in the IDF for sixteen months,” he said. “I was what they call a chail boded; a lonely soldier.”

  “I didn’t know foreigners could be in the Israeli Army,” I said.

  “Sure. Foreign Jews have been fighting in the IDF for over fifty years,” Baker told me. “During the 1948 War, thirty-five hundred volunteers from forty-three different countries went to Israel to defend the new state. David Ben-Gurion, the prime minister at the time, created a special fighting force called MAHAL, an acronym for Mitnadvei Hutz La’aretz; overseas volunteers. Some Israelis joke that MAHAL stands for Mishuga’im Mi’hutz La’aretz, or crazy guys from outside of Israel. We’re also known as Mahalniks.”

  “Are there many Mahalniks in Israel now?”

  “Over five thousand.”

  “Do they receive the same training as regulars?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Danny said. “It’s a lot like Marine boot camp.”

  Buford glanced at Baker but said nothing. I got the strange feeling that the stupid son of a bitch might actually be listening.

  “Are you going back into the Army?” I asked.

  “No, I’m visiting family,” Danny told me. “I have aunts, uncles, and cousins in Israel. This is my ninth trip not counting my service time. I just finished my freshman year at the University of Hartford. I think I’m the world’s oldest freshman.”

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-one,” he told me. “What about him?”

  “He’s nineteen going on five,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” Buford said.

  “See? He’s got a steel-trap mind. Nothing gets in and nothing gets out,” I laughed. Danny Baker laughed with me.

  Several bearded men gathered in the aisle in front of us. They were dressed in black, including wide-brimmed black hats. A few of them looked disdainfully in Buford’s direction then turned toward the front of the plane. I was confused. Buford was concerned.

  “What are they doing?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Danny Baker leaned toward me. “It’s just Mincha,” he said.

  “Who’s he?” I asked.

  Baker chuckled into his hand. “Mincha is the Hebrew word for afternoon prayers.”

  “Why did they turn their backs to us?” Buford asked.

  “They’re facing east, toward Jerusalem,” Baker told him.

  When the group began chanting, Buford shrank back in his seat.

  “What the fuck is that?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “Relax. That’s th
e nigun, the melody of a chant,” Baker explained.

  “They don’t sacrifice anyone, do they?” Buford looked worried.

  “Only one first-born Christian son per service,” Baker said seriously.

  “I am the first-born son in my family.” Buford’s eyes widened.

  “Sorry about that,” Danny said, and laughed.

  One man praying in the aisle turned toward Baker and gave him a disapproving glance.

  “Sorry,” Danny whispered, holding up his hand in apology to them.

  Buford was looking out the window, muttering.

  I never thought I’d have fun flying with a Nazi to Israel, but so far, so good.

  Danny Baker got out of his seat and joined the men in the aisle. He put on a yarmulke, winked at me then started chanting.

  The entire scene was bizarre to me and I could only imagine Buford’s impression. I closed my eyes and let the chanting lull me to sleep.

  I woke for food. Buford was still sleeping. The flight attendant gave me choices, and I ordered the chicken for both of us.

  “I assume all the food is kosher,” I said to Danny Baker as he tried a piece of fish.

  “Everything on El Al is kosher except for the guy sitting next to you,” Baker said. “Do you really think Israel can change him?”

  “He’s been programmed to hate,” I said. “I was hoping the IDF could deprogram him.”

  “That’s been tried,” he said. “It hasn’t worked. They’ve been programmed from birth. I think the only solution might be to kill their programmers.”

  “Isn’t there another way?” I asked.

  While Danny thought about the answer I thought about the question.

  How do you stop someone from wanting to kill you?

  If your face is in your enemy’s crosshairs and the infrared dot of death is between your eyes, how do you convince the man with the gun not to pull the trigger?

  Do you smile to show your soul? Do you wave, one human being to another? Do you hold up two fingers in peace? Do you display one finger in defiance?

  “If you can get a kid like Buford to listen,” Danny finally said, “I would try to deprogram him by getting him to understand Israel and Israelis.”

  “How would you do that?” I asked.

  “I’d teach him what a teacher in Tel Aviv taught me years ago,” Baker said. “The teacher explained that Israel is a country born from inspiration, meditation, perspiration, and education. He used Masada for inspiration; Ya’d Vasham for meditation, kibbutz farming for perspiration, and Hadassah Hospital for education.